


Walking Wounded

by thesignsofserbia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angry John, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Gen, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 04:01:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5319680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesignsofserbia/pseuds/thesignsofserbia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s anger had not surprised him in theory, but it was all very well and good theoretically; imagining receiving the blow, that he could understand, but in reality?</p><p>That was entirely different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walking Wounded

**Author's Note:**

> Set directly after the reunion scene in The Empty Hearse. Mary is not mentioned, so possibly AU without Mary, you decide.

 

 

He stumbles through the city, despite how he tries not to, tries to force himself to remain upright, to walk normally, to school his face into impassivity; _don’t give yourself away!_

 

But god; it _hurts._

 

Every step shudders and jars him, and it’s impossible to maintain a steady pace.

 

He’s trying not to draw undue attention; he’s still a dead man after all, not to mention a walking casualty. He needs time to rest, time to adjust, so he must do his best to blend into the crowd.

 

Sherlock Holmes is a house hold name now, he thinks bitterly. He detests the fame, the invasion of privacy; the last thing he wants is a public image.

 

Once the press catch wind of his resurrection they will swarm like vultures to a ~~his~~ rotting corpse, and Mycroft needs time to contain it, this is one occasion where he is grateful for his brother’s omniscient meddling. He hates to admit it, but this time, he needs the protection.

 

The media circus that would surely result from him being spotted, limping and broken through the streets of London would be a nightmare, and he already has his share.

 

He’s thankful for the dark at least, hiding the blood that coats the lower half of his face in thick dark streams, stemming from his throbbing nose, providing a stark contrast to his increasingly pale and ashen features.

 

There must be more blood, he thinks, though he doesn’t stop to check; he doesn’t need to. He can feel it trickling and oozing down his back, weeping out through torn sutures; plastering the expensive shirt to his skin. Mycroft will be angry about the shirt.

 

It dawns on him slowly that he has no idea where he’s going, that he has nowhere _to_ go. His feet had automatically steered him towards Baker Street; to safety, familiarity. But 221B Baker Street lies empty, and he has no idea what to do.

 

He could turn to Greg Lestrade, the man had seemed to receive him well, but he needs medical attention for which the D.I. is not qualified, and he would only insist on a trip to A&E. Oh how many unwanted questions would doubtlessly arise, questions which he couldn't possible answer.

 

Molly Hooper would certainly be willing to assist him; she had extensive medical training and was one of the few people he had entrusted with his secret. But her quiet pity would be unbearable, and he has already asked so much of her.

 

Mycroft was the obvious choice he supposed, but he was at a significant disadvantage in his current state, overwhelmed by sentiment, plus, their newfound rapport made for unchartered territory.

 

Mycroft is the only one who was privy as to his movements over the past two years. This shared knowledge has brought them closer by necessity, closer than they have been in years, and Sherlock is uncertain of his uncharacteristic gentleness and sympathy; it makes him uncomfortable.

 

His plan had been simple;

 

_Eliminate the threat,_

_Survive,_

_Make it Home,_

_Find John._

 

Well he’d found John, and he was arguably alive, depending on who you asked, but where was home?

 

He’d accomplished these goals, but none of it had played out the way he’d envisioned it. His brother had been forced to intervene due to his own failings, and the shame of his capture and subsequent rescue haunts him.

 

He’d hoped to walk into the fire and emerge from the flames untouched, a conqueror walking proud from the smoke and destruction. But he had not returned under his own steam, he’d been dragged, battered and helpless from the rubble; the damsel in distress.

 

And when he had returned, it was to anything but a hero’s welcome.

 

John’s anger had not surprised him in theory; it had been a logical (if predictable) reaction to so thorough a betrayal. He’d been prepared for it, even anticipating the possibility of physical violence, but still…

 

Because it was all very well and good, theoretically; _imagining_ receiving the blow, that could understand, but in reality? To feel John’s fists, his hands wrapped tightly against his throat, with no other purpose that to harm him, and perhaps even _kill_ him? That was entirely different.

 

He could never have prepared himself for that.

 

Mycroft had tried to warn him, and for once he knows; he should have listened.

 

The fact that John Watson actually _wanted_ to hurt him, to make him suffer, was truly abhorrent, it was physically sickening.

 

He falters on the pavement, staggering, hand groping blindly to brace against the harsh brick as he gags.

 

He knows _why_ , in his mind he understands the thinking and the motives behind it, knows that he even deserves it. The concept is sound. But in practice he _can’t_ understand it; emotionally, it’s inconceivable, his heart cannot come to terms with this, or grasp it on a baser level, he refuses to accept how this is possible.

 

_This can’t be happening._

It doesn’t seem real, like some horrible dream, an alternate reality where John would ever cause him injury, a different John, one who would bruise and maim him.

 

_You machine!_

 

But it _is_ real, earth shatteringly so, and he cannot run from this, cannot undo the damage he's caused.

 

It hurts because Sherlock trusts John absolutely, had trusted implicitly that he would _never_ hurt him like this, certainly not so thoroughly. And although reason tell him that this was always an eventuality, that John is well within his rights, some part of him, deep down, aches at this visceral display of violence against his person.

 

Sherlock has suffered far greater injuries than this, has been beaten by more men, in more countries than he can count, but it was never personal, it never hurt like this.

 

In striking him, it feels as if John has left him mortally wounded. The physical severity of the attack in itself is meaningless, it's the identity of his assailant that cripples him.

 

He’s becoming light headed, and he distantly wonders if he’s going into shock.

 

He knows now that for all his arrogance and bravado, he had been completely unprepared for their meeting in the restaurant, and he wonders if they can ever come back from this.

 

John had been far more deeply effected by his death than he had anticipated, leaving him at a loss for what to do. It had begun to dawn on him too late how cruel and inappropriate all of his improvised theatrics were in the face of this revelation, that his misguided attempt for a joyous reunion was now, in this light, a slap to the face.

 

John's aggression and the slow realisation of the scope of what he had done seeped into his pores, paralysing him with uncertainty and guilt, rendering unable to speak or react accordingly as his mind reeled, trying to catch up.

 

He had severely miscalculated, and in his state of turmoil he did something unforgivably stupid. He wanted to fall to his knees under the weight of his guilt, but instead he panicked, and mind blank, he defaulted back to his initial approach;

 

"Are you really going to keep that?"

 

Then something in John had snapped.

 

He doesn’t know how he managed to remain impassive, John must have heard his gasps of pain and disbelief as he tackled him, sutures groaning as his torso twisted, sawing through tender flesh as his back impacted the hard floor.

 

But the real damage had come after, further trauma to his wounds be damned, he could take pain, he is very well accustomed to pain, it was more the idea of the intent that bothered him.No; the real agony had been the blazing hatred in his eyes, once fond, the leaden weight he felt, the utter loss that seized his heart as he was forced to stand and watch him walk away, turning his back on Sherlock Holmes.

 

This is his fault. He is not the wronged party here, and he is indeed _not_ the victim, but the perpetrator of all this pain. Sherlock is the one who left, who committed that first terrible act that led them down this path. But that doesn't make the loss of John Watson any less than devastating to him, and though he forfeit the right to his own sense of abandonment and betrayal the moment he stepped off that rooftop, he still feels them profoundly, they still cut right down to the bone.

 

He has to face the fact that this is _not_ an alternate universe, it is a universe entirely of his own making.

 

Sherlock feels himself begin to crumple; it starts in his synapses and spreads outwards, through his veins and chest like a cancer, corrupting his cells. He needs to get away before he falls apart.

 

He’s not sure when and how, but suddenly he’s standing outside 221 Baker Street, the windows of the flat above are dark and silent; devoid of all life.

 

He could turn to Mrs Hudson now, he knows, she accepts him for who he is, providing an unconditional, maternal sort of comfort. She has forgiven him, somehow.

 

He hesitates to impose on her though, with the shock he’d given her earlier by returning from the dead. Indestructible and steadfast she may seem, but her age and poor health are factors he must consider; the past two years have not been kind on her.

 

The past two years have been hell for them all.

 

But now it seems that he has no choice.

 

He opens the familiar door, significantly battered and worn since the last time he saw it, not with a key, but with the tools of a housebreaker. This is what he has become; an intruder in his own home.

 

Is it even his home anymore?

 

As he predicted Mrs Hudson is glad to help, fussing over him, and he realises belatedly that he doesn’t mind her ministrations. He starts in alarm when she touches him, starved for affection; it has been a very long time since someone bothered to care for him. He turns his head away in his embarrassment at the unsolicited emotions rising up, stinging at his eyes.

 

She cries as she tends to his stitches, she tries to hide it, but he knows.

 

This isn’t the first time Martha Hudson has patched his wounds, and she tries to distract him from the lack of anaesthetic by reminiscing about a similar situation in Florida, when they formed an unlikely alliance to conspire against her then husband.

 

He appreciates her attempts to be cheerful, though she can’t contain her horror at the extent of his maltreatment.

 

“Oh _Sherlock_ , oh dear, what have they done to you?”

 

“That bad?”

 

It’s another attempt at humour that falls flat, and he grimaces, he knows exactly how bad it is.

 

She makes a good job of it, and frets about the state of the flat, which she just couldn’t bear to let out. He tells her that he’ll handle it. He needs to do this alone, in private where no one can watch him fall apart; plausible deniability.

 

When he steps into that room, thick with dust and the smell of abandonment, all of the air rushes from his lungs, and he has to grip the door frame hard as his knees buckle.

 

He’s home, oh god; he’s finally home.

 

It’s been so long…He never dared hope that he’d make it back, to see this place again. It’s much the same as how he left it, the same worn furniture, comfortable and familiar, covered in dust sheets, all of his things are still present on the desk, the book shelf. His laboratory equipment, though packed into boxes, has survived.

 

He starts exploring hesitantly through the flat; numb, he discovers his clothes still hanging in the wardrobe, his sock index untouched, the same wallpaper, bullet holes and all.

 

Even the skull remains in its place on the mantle, eye sockets staring at him accusingly. He traces it's familiar shape, running his fingers along its mandible and coronal suture, caressing a palm over the parietal bone. It has been alone for a very long time.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, but the words crack alarmingly, and he barely recognises his own voice, “I left, and I’m sorry but…I came back? I came home.”

 

He looks to the skull as if it could give him some answer, some sort of forgiveness, but it just stares right through him, as if he were a ghost.

 

It’s illogical, him standing here talking to an empty skull, but that’s what he’s always done, isn’t it? It’s familiar; and he desperately needs familiar, he’s not too proud to admit that. Besides; there’s no one else to hear him now.

 

His violin is still in its case by the window; he unzips it and stares at the instrument longingly. It has been terribly neglected too, the bow will need re-hairing, he’ll have to get some more rosin, and probably a new set of strings too. He plucks the G string and winces; it’s horribly out of tune. He shuts the case hurriedly, for some reason he can’t bring himself to try and play it.

 

Everything he touches seems to burn.

 

He wanders mutely and without purpose, feeling alien and uninvited; all of his things are still here, there’s the same bright and mismatched wallpaper that he secretly loves, but the flat has lost some of its essence, it’s so still and dark.

 

There’s still one room he hasn’t looked in, can’t bear to see it barren.

 

He turns his gaze reluctantly to the old red armchair, the uncomfortable one with the broken spring; _John’s chair_.

 

The words resonate with him, echoing down the dark halls of his mind palace.

 

The whole flat is empty, and suddenly; he _hates_ it. He loathes it, it’s not _right_ , it’s not allowed to be so empty, so silent, this is not the way it’s supposed to be!

 

It doesn’t matter that he’s here, that he is inhabiting this space; he doesn’t count.

 

In a burst of anger and furious energy, he rips off all of the dust sheets, tearing them, he yanks open the curtains and windows, disturbing dust, making him cough; it hurts. He doesn’t _care_. He races around the flat, switching on all of the lights, he turns on the kettle, the tv and the radio; his chest is heaving by the time he’s finished and there’s so much light, sound, activity; the air is buzzing with it.

 

But the flat is still empty, despite it all.

 

Something catches his attention, and he turns everything else off. It’s the stereo system, it’s not tuned to the radio, it's playing a CD; an old recording he made years and years ago, it is a composition; his favourite. It’s on repeat. Sherlock had forgotten that he’d ever recorded it, or where the CD had come from.

 

John must have found it.

 

John.

 

He sags into the chair, just listening.

 

Listening to himself play and imagining John finding the CD, no; _searching_ for the CD, for evidence of him, and sitting here listening to the same music, long after Sherlock was dead and buried.

 

_Oh John._

He can’t bear it, it’s too much, he feels John’s absence palpably, feels it even more than he did when he was on another continent, so far away. He feels it even more than when he was chained, on his knees, begging for mercy with no hope for salvation.

 

He feels _everything_.

 

Everything he’s been bottling up for the past two years, not feeling it because his very survival was depending on him not falling apart.

 

He feels every lash of the whip, all the torture he felt, but suppressed and escaped from in his head, to defy them; to not break.

 

He feels everything he imagines John was feeling, constructs a fictional scenario, a world of opposites, where John was dead and he was sitting here in his place; in the aftermath.

 

Sherlock Holmes breaks.

 


End file.
